The Devil Wears Vintage Prada
by Lady Thackeray
Summary: Who knows what actually happened to Miranda to make her as she is? I have taken it upon myself to chronicle these events, and translate them into story format. Please R&R!
1. Interview

French Runway. A prestigious place, if not somewhat intimidating. I sit here, in my fake Versace suit, and take in the enormity of the precarious situation of which I am placed. In a cold plastic chair, I am sitting amongst ten or twenty other young ladies, most of whom are wearing something vaguely along the same lines of what I am, and are perched _slightly on top of_ the cold plastic chair. Their hair is immaculate, not a strand out of place, their nails perfectly manicured, and their accents are completely flawless, not unlike their entire physique.

"Miranda Priestly," French accent lilts out of a somewhat skinny woman, using the term "woman" loosely, and she beckons for me to follow. I comply. It does not do to disobey.

She ushers me into a long, skinny hallway. Framed magazines dot the vast expanse of office grey. I see endless supermodels in various poses, different slogans fighting for space in front of her body.

One claims to have found the cure for the common man. Another claims to have 761 items to look beautiful in. Pfui. I know from my experience, 760 of those items will be either products or in the adverts.

And behold! The door to my possible new career is approached, with the words _Runwa en Francais_ emblazoned on the front. The _y_ is scratched off, and I ask myself for the umpteenth time that day, "Why am I here?"

"_Excuse moi_?" Oops.

"C'est non." Note to self: work on French.

She casts a quizzical eye in my direction, but I wave it off with a look that asks if anything is wrong. Slowly, my eyes lower to her knockoff Givenchy skirt, and my face falls.

She quickly looks away, and I know my work is cut out for me.

The door is opened, and some young imbecile dashes out, a tray of coffee mugs perched upon her hand, a key dangling from her neck, and flustered air about her.

She bumps into me, mumbles something incoherent, and whizzes past us. My guide takes no notice. Instantly, my eyes dart around the office space that is too glamorous to behold.

Girls in utterly fabulous outfits look as though they are just about ready to go out to clubs, but they sit on the floor, some rearranging photos on a manila envelope, some pasting labels onto various folders, some just smoking cigarettes and drinking their coffee as if it was their only source of food (come to think of it, it most likely is).

We walk past various cubicles of fashionistas who should not be at work, until we reach a brown door, upon which is written Mlle. Marie desEntoile, Editor in Chief.

I mutter something very vulgar, very English, and very frowned upon, and I swear, every eye is placed on me, and my eyes widen at the extreme sound decrease that just occurred. "Did she just say that's and gasps filled the room. I mutter it again, just to shock them, and walk into the large, windowed office, nothing like what I've seen so far (a dozen half starved girls and a copy machine) that houses a desk, two chairs, and the most fashionable of them all, Marie desEntoile.

"_Entre-vous" _She says from behind her chair, and I am suddenly reminded of a pit bull, for whatever reason.

My guide says something to Her Highness, and she turns around to face me.

Her brown eyes met with my baby blues, and I am greeted (if you could call it that) by the mademoiselle.

"Sit." Excuse me?

I grab the chair on the other side of the desk, as my Guide procures a chair out of thin air and perches upon it, her leather portfolio resting under a Mont Blanc pen.

"So, euh, you are Miranda Pricely?" She gives it the long I, which I despise.

"Um, yes, er, ma'am, uh, mademoiselle, Miranda Priestly." Her sadistic smile shows under all the makeup caked on her face, having a laugh at my expense.

"You are interviewing for ze junior assistant position, non?"

"Yes, mlle."

"'Ave you previous experience in zees field?"

Previous experience schlepping coffee back and forth? "Of course, mlle."

"Now, Mlle. Priestly, you understand ze hours would be demanding, and you would often have to do meaning less tasks, does zees bother you?"

Of course not, Mlle. desEntoile. I absolutely adore getting no sleep, for no reason mind, and waking up perfectly cheerful the next day, only to have to repeat the cycle.

"Oh not at all, Ms. desEntoile. I have always had an extremely strong work ethic, and will try to help to the best of my abilities." For translation, see above.

"I see." She glances down on her paper, adjusts her glasses, and says something in French to the Guide, who motions for me to leave.

"Well, it was very nice to meet you, madam." I smile, and she takes no notice, waving me away with a brusque shifting of her hand.

I tuck in the chair, and as I leave, I notice my Guide hadn't written anything down on her notepad.

This job was mine.


	2. A never ending debate

"But I can't understand this," I spoke into the receiver of the public telephone, the hustle and bustle of Paris surrounding me. "Why is it that there is no way I can get this job?"

Nesta, my dearest friend in the world, is contradicting my ability to actively pursue this job. This has been going on for a week, ever since I interviewed at Runway. She will say that the French are snobs to the English, and while there are no written rules that enable them to turn me down based on appearance alone, they will still sneer behind my back for the duration of my (short) time there. In my rebuttal, I will tell her that I am more than capable of doing the job. She will then tell me that I'm not, I will reply with a Yes, I am, and we will ping pong back and forth until I run out of change, and ergo, I must hang up.

"You can't get this job because they will hate you because you buy all your clothes at Oxfam, because they are cheap, and they will know this and drive you out of the damn office! Besides, you don't want to work in fashion. You hate fashion, with a passion." I can hear her writing that down. Nesta is a poet. She is constantly writing anything she says down, because she thinks she is going to win a Pulitzer by the time she is thirty. In truth, she couldn't win a Pulitzer by the time she was eighty.

"Nesta, they can't throw me to the wolves based on pip pip pip."

"Huh?"

"I said, they can't turn me down just because I pip pip"

"Miranda, I can't hear you."

"Nesta, the pips are going. Pip pip." I reach into my purse and rummage around in the bottom. As luck would have it, there is no change. "Nest, doll, I haven't anymore pip pip pip pip have to hang pip call you pip pip bye." I hang up, and hear the long line behind me sigh with relief.

The street behind me is in dead gridlock. I can nearly smell the dinner that has so long been denied me, and will obviously have to wait a little longer. I take a cigarette out of my purse, light up, and stand under the streetlight, taking long drags. The smoke warms my frigid lungs, and I am reminded once again to buy nicotine patches. Again.

The traffic is moving, prompting me to throw down my cigarette and crush it beneath my foot. I hail down a taxi cab, bidding it to drive me to my miniscule apartment. For a mere three weeks of my prospective salary, I can have an absolute lunatic cart me to a place it would take the same amount of time to walk. The logic behind this completely escapes me. Pigeons fly away, shouting their insults; pedestrians grab their children and throw themselves out of the way of the missile that is the cab. I should have taken the Underground.

Finally, we approach my building. Leaning to one side, the paint is chipped, and I can see my upstairs neighbors having a slap fight right in front of the window. Based on this, I know I'm not getting more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep.

The cab driver bids me pay him a third of my cab budget. I comply, with the screech of tires speeding away as thanks for his month's rent.

The stair railings shake from the force of Mr.-and- Mrs. Upstairs' fight. I struggle to find my keys while trying to listen to their relentless divorce in the making.

"And now I hear you are screwing the nanny? What the hell is wrong with you? And why is it I find this out from her? Is it too much to ask that I, your _wife_, am being cheated on by someone I hate? I want that goddamn divorce!" Each sentence is punctuated by either a slap or various forms of the phrase screw you.

"Well, you drove me to the nanny, honey! You are out shopping all day, and when I get home, I'm left starving because you can't even be bothered to order take away, let alone cook a meal. And at least the nanny actually cares about the kid that _neither _of us wanted!" Ouch.

"Lower your voice!" And with that, only muffled swears ensue.

The door to my apartment opens, and I peer into the dark, dank, depressing studio that has housed me for the past three months. A message awaits me on the phone. I stumble around the mounds of clothes lumped around the floor. Of course, given my luck, I manage to evade all the clothes, but trip over a table leg.

Beep. Pause. Beep. Pause.

"Alright, already." I get up to press the big flashing button and get answered by a random bill collector, but this time I'm surprised. A bright, cheery voice fills the room.

"Hi, Miranda! This is Allison Durno, from Runway. I'm just calling to tell you that you got the job! Isn't that exciting? I know it is. A million girls would _kill_ for this job. I mean, literally. Okay, so we were wondering when you could start. We, of course, would prefer it if you could come in, let say, Tuesday, but we understand if you have some things you have to put in order. So, if you could call us back and tell us how soon you could start, we would really appreciate it! Okay, buh-bye." Click.


	3. Work and play coincide

I was reeling in shock. Well, not really. I knew the job was going to be mine. And now it was. But I had to start… Tuesday? That was just two scant days away. Whatever happened to starting a week from Monday? What sort of company makes their future employees drop everything and inform them of their new employment status, without so much as making an official job offer? And what kind of psychopathic establishment starts their employees on a Tuesday?

I collapsed on my couch, trying to simultaneously light a cigarette and reach for the latest Runway on my coffee table. I open the magazine, and glossy ads are thrust at me from every angle. Prada, Gucci, Versace, and a spread for some car. What seems like (and most likely is) a hundred pages are turned before I reach the table of contents. I skim the articles promised until I find what I'm looking for, the letter from the editor.

Normally, I would have skipped over this anecdote, but seeing as this was a letter from my new boss, whose needs I would need to accommodate day in and day out, it would probably do no harm to see how she portrayed herself to her readers.

"Dearest Readers,

"May I open this most fabulous issue of Runway with a quote- 'Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.' This was said by Henry David Thoreau. When I quote this, I don't mean to say "Don't ever buy anything new". I mean to say 'Conserve what you have'. Don't spend everything to accommodate every trend that crops up.

"In this issue, I chose to implement only the most classic pieces that will always be in style, despite whatever trends accumulate. Not only will this help you, the reader, to be the most fashionable and fabulous that you can be, but it will also conserve fabric that can be used for other purposes.

"On another note, this month we will be beginning a contest, a contest of fashion. Over the next few months, we will be patrolling the streets of Paris with a camera and a purpose. Anyone that catches our eye, in their poise, dress, demeanor, etc, will be photographed, and the names taken down. These pictures will be shown on our website, along with the photograph, the name, and a quick quote. If you happen to be photographed twice within a month, you will win an undisclosed prize.

"Knowing us, it's bound to be fabulous.

"Darlings, it's time for me to retire, so I bid you adieu. Until next month!"

If this letter was any indication, my new boss is:

1. Cutesy

2. Polite

3. Over-using the word 'fabulous'

4. Literate

5. Very, very, _very _French

Scary, I know.

Oy vey. Deep gurgles, gargles, whooshes echo from deep inside my stomach. I clutch my abdomen in absolute agony.

"_Eurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh," _I moan. I'm so hungry I could eat the couch, but I must abstain. Every person-model-thing was at most a size two, and those were the fatter ones. It made me ashamed of my hulking, size four, 115 pound frame. The sheer guilt at indulging in gnocchi with vodka sauce made me force away the sumptuous looking tarts, the opulent éclairs, and the blueberry cheesecake that Nesta was forced into choosing between at dinner last night.

The sad thing is I was already clamoring to transform myself into one of them before the job even began!

My stomach is again racked with pain, and I realize I have no choice: I either eat something or die from the hunger. I ponder for a moment, and crawl to my refrigerator. My visit yields me one very moldy slice of Manchego cheese, one cherry tomato, a can of Maraschino cherries, a carton of probably spoiled milk, a sandwich, one bottle nail varnish in French pink (refrigerating it keeps its consistency longer), and a lime. No good. I need something without empty calories. Preferably, without calories altogether.

An excursion to the cupboard capitulates to one box muesli… two boxes muesli… three boxes muesli… why the hell do I have so much muesli????

I suppose muesli it is, then. I pour myself a bowl, and sit in my breakfast nook, taking in the scene. Cheery yellow and green alternate in stripes on my kitchen walls. A refrigerator sits adjacent to the stove, which sits under three feet of cabinetry. A sink sits on the other side, next to more storage space. This side is the one with the window looking onto the street.

The rest of my apartment is not dissimilar. The same green of the kitchen lines the walls, making me feel as though I'm encased in a terrarium. My bed is wedged in the corner of the space. A pile of magazines serve as a nightstand, threatening to topple over under a decidedly superfluous lamp. A desk sits opposite, upon which is the lone computer. However, where opposite is used, it really should say adjacent, for there is a scant three inches between the end of the bed and the desk. A couch that could be more adequately described as a loveseat rests against the back wall, a brown, mission style coffee table in front of it. The entire room is littered with ashtrays, ranging from barely overflowing to containing mountain ranges of used cigarettes, and magazines.

Dozens of magazines, more paper than the average Parisian sees in a lifetime. Fashion magazines, news magazines, travel magazines, lifestyle magazines, even the cute little punk 'zines. They cover the floor where clothing does not. Fresh ones are delivered to my mailbox every Monday without fail, to be fed to the floor in my never ending tithe. Recycling them would be a viable option, but, alas, I simply cannot be bothered.

I savor the last few bites of my muesli, relishing my first nourishment in perhaps sixteen hours. I know it will be at least another sixteen hours until another bite of food graces my lips.

I curse my employers, they who have enough power over me to want me to fit in _before _I'm even amongst them. The couple above curses each other, promising for a very poor night's sleep. The lonely old man below curses his TV, willing it to work and play his game show once more. The student to the right curses her teacher for assigning the mother of all thesis papers, and the tenant to the left sleeps soundly, his snores seeping through the rice paper thin walls. How he can sleep when it's merely eight thirty astounds me.

I have to get out. This is really annoying me. I'm trying to rationalize a drink and a night at the local bar, getting wasted and remembering nothing of the night before tomorrow, and a scale pops up in my mind. To deplete my cash reserves for a night of cheap liquor and an inevitable head resting on the rim of a toilet, after begging a stranger to hold my hair back, or to spend a quiet night at home, maybe watching some What Not to Wear reruns, possibly reading an actual book, perhaps even some more muesli if I was good.

Twenty-eight minutes later, I was sprinting towards the opening of a bar, where a small crowd had formed. I exhaled a sigh of relief. This was my expertise. The clump of tightly compacted bodies warranted no entry to anyone who didn't know the tricks of the trade. The tricks:

Stay as close to the nearest bodies, as though you were in the bar already.

Weave in and out of the masses, cigarette carried aloft (always carry a cigarette). Desperate to get out of the way of the cigarette (and its ash), the clump will separate.

A bill for the entry price must be in your other hand, kept smooth with only one crease down the middle.

Once you've maneuvered to the head of the clump, pay your fee and get in. No hesitation, other wise the clump will swallow you back and you'll be out the price of entry.

Tonight, the crowd was particularly antsy, so a few well placed steps with the stiletto heel of my shoe did the trick.

Once in the club, I took in my surroundings. It was dark, sweaty, smoky, and above all, hot. A band was adding to the ambience of complete chaos. I lit another cigarette, took a few drags, and stubbed it out again. I danced my way to the middle of the room.

The music was loud, and it was sad, and at the same time it filled you with a feeling of optimism uncharacteristic of this music. It was surprisingly easy to dance to, even when the incredibly sexy lead singer was looking your way.

My heartbeat quickened with each flip of his mousy brown hair. Every syllable springing from his lips sent shivers down my spine. Every look he shot my way caused my body to dance faster, my hips to move with the beat, and, erm, other stuff.

"Alright, we're just gonna take a quick break, and be right back before the DJ plays truly awful shit." (_Ahright, weh just gonna take a kwek brake) _I almost snorted a laugh, hearing him and his accent (trés sexy) denounce the DJ's choice of music, but then I remembered that it's not very sexy to snort. The DJ began to play Wax Poetic's 'Dreamin' in recalcitrance towards English Singer's statement as I sauntered over to the bar, and ordered a Sex on the Beach. A hand on the small of my back accompanied "Make that two".

I spun around to find English Singer looking straight at me. Again.

"Hey there," he said. I noticed his eyes were clouded grey, intensifying with every second I stared into them. His white button down was obscured by a vest, think Victorian age. It may have been risky, but it worked on him. He smiled, and his teeth were brilliant without being blinding, straight with an edge, and a delicious smile worthy of only the truly godly. His jaw was unshaven, but more in a 5 o'clock shadow way. His hair cut in the style of old military, and his eyebrows had a playful arch to them. I realized it had been about a million years since he offered a greeting, and I returned a witty, coy reply of "Hey yourself." Good, you haven't made yourself into a complete blabbering imbecile yet- progress.

"Did you like the set?"

"I only heard about half of it, but it was… what can I say here? What is coy, but not idiotic? ACK certainly not unpleasant." Shit, shit, shit. Certainly not unpleasant?

He laughs, a pleasant (or certainly not unpleasant) laugh of someone who is genuinely amused. "I'm Jude, and normally I don't play with that band, it's just that their singer has some nasty virus thing." Good, so he's available. Unless he plays with some other band.

"I'm Miranda, and normally I don't hang out here, I just really needed a drink." As if on cue, our drinks arrive, and I sip mine, flinching as the alcohol stings my throat. He fiddles with the stem of his glass, not yet making any motion to drink it.

"I wouldn't drink too much of that, it'll make you more pissed than a warehouse of Ketel One. And quite likely, you'll wake up in nothing but a sombrero on the banks of the Seine." He pauses. "Or maybe it's just a situation unique to me." He grins sheepishly as I throw my head back in laughter.

"Good enough reason for me. But why do you order it, then? What you described sounds like a really crap fix."

"I wanted a reason to talk to you. This one works out nicely." He flashes a smile again, almost like a smirk. I'm enticed. He rests his hand on my knee, and leaning in closer to me, whispers "You look gorgeous, and I'm afraid I must take you out for a real drink."

"I would take you up on that, except I fear for the band. Whatever will they do without you?" I say, raising my eyebrows in mock concern.

"They'll manage. Now let's get out of here." He keeps his face close to mine, and leads me out of the sweltering club and into the street.

We walk for a few blocks, talking about everything from the weather to childhood street names. I learned that he grew up just outside of London, with his mum. His father left the family when Jude was fourteen. He likes all things indie and hates sushi and pineapples. He's 26, three years older than I, and is currently nomadic, living wherever he does, having whatever time he wants to. Happy-go-lucky, carefree. I like it. We stop in front of a dingy-looking building. The red brick is flaking off the side of the building, and the paint on the door is peeling. It looks as though it's swaying in the wind, but I'm oddly comforted by the sight. It's a homey building. "Where are we?" I ask, knowing full well the answer.

"The best bar this side of some other side. It may not look like much…" He's waiting for my answer, but I don't know what to say.

"Sounds great," I say apathetically.

He inserts a key into the lock, making it seem very much not like a bar. I'm now _very _excited for what might happen in the coming hours. He opens the door, and we walk up a set of very narrow stairs into… darkness.

I'm blinking, and I still can't see anything. I can hear Jude fumbling against the wall for a light switch. Flip, and the room is illuminated. The overall effect is breathtaking.

The walls are painted a rich red, dark crimson. A large stone Buddha smiles at me in the corner, his hand peacefully up. He sits on a rug, one rug of many in the room. A daybed has been converted into a couch facing a fireplace (!), which is next to a television. Jude takes my jacket, forcing me to turn around to a kitchen (cozy, but outdated), and a wall with two doors, presumably leading to the bedroom and bathroom.

"So does it live up to your expectations?" Jude asks with a mischievous smile.

"What expectations? I had none, we only just met. But I like it. The sitting room especially. It's great." I walk into the kitchen. "So how 'bout that drink?" He obviously forgot about it, and starts to the kitchen to make them, but I stop him. "Hey, sit, relax. Just point me to the glass cabinet and I'll fix up two martinis." He's visibly relieved, and sinks into the converted daybed.

"So what do you to occupy your days?" Does just being hired count as having the job? Yes, I rationalize.

"I'm an assistant to the editor-in-chief of Runway."

"_An_ assistant? Is there more than one?"

"Oh yeah. The senior one, who works more with the magazine, and the junior one, who's more of the personal assistant."

"Which one are you?" Damn. I knew I couldn't put it off forever.

"The junior one." Awkward pause. "What do you do?" I bring over the finished drinks.

"I'm a musician, I suppose. Thanks." He accepts the drink and takes a sip.

"You suppose? Don't you know?" I sit down.

"Fine. Positive statement. Ringing of legitimacy. I'm a musician." He shakes his hair. "I'm just trying to start or join a band, just to get my feet off the ground. I play with local bands that need someone to fill in, and that's basically it. I guess I'm not really good at following through, as evidenced by tonight…"He trails off, and takes another sip.

Silence.

More silence.

Lots of silence. "Do you mind if I smoke in here?" I ask, anything to break the ice.

"By all means." He just sits, smiles, drinks. I take my pack out of my pocket. I roll the cigarette in between my fingers, and Jude takes a lighter to the end, and as he goes to light my cigarette, he's leaning in, and his eyes are on mine, and the lighter's down, and the cigarette's dropped, and we're kissing, passionately kissing. His lips caress mine, the corner of my mouth, my jaw, and he's kissing my neck now. I'm running my hands up and down his back, through his hair, on his waist. His hands are in my hair. His tongue slides into my mouth, and it's gentle, as though he cares. A hand retreats down to my waist. I let it stay, and we're falling backwards onto the sofa, and in the back of my mind, I silence the little voice that reminds me when I have to be at work. Work can wait for now.


End file.
